The PseudoSuperiors
by Star7
Summary: Two boys, two egos, one rushed fic for V-day 2011.  Senru one-shot complete.  Don't read it, it sucks.


**The Pseudo-Superiors**

_For Orangeorlemons (aka the resident slave driver) who reminded me to write something for Valentines day at about 23:50 on 13__th__ Feb. _

**Warning:**Excessive and totally unnecessary use of swear words throughout. Starts out one fic, ends a completely different one. What can I say? Shit happens.

Sendoh Akira didn't really know what he was doing, why he was here, or what on earth had possessed him to buy a 10,000 yen shinkansen ticket to Osaka. But, he comforted himself, stranger things had probably happened.

Uozumi now, Uozumi had phoned to say he was going to go. Curiosity too much, Akira supposed. There was no denying that Shohoku was a fascinating team. Akira had refused at first. He didn't need to get dragged into such a rivalry as that. But later, as he'd lain on his bed and pondered the disappointment he was inexplicably feeling, he realised that perhaps… just perhaps… if Akagi needed the support of his long-time rival wouldn't it be right, nay, a _duty _for Akira to do his bit for his own small-time nemesis?

Oh yes. Well, that had seemed reasonable to him at the time. Anyway, hadn't it been Rukawa who had started this so-called rivalry in the first place? So he'd gone.

The first game passed in horror. He spent half the time hiding from the Kainan team, paranoid that he'd be spotted and questioned (although not entirely sure what he had to feel guilty about), and the second half with his eyes wide with disbelief. Kaede Rukawa, the darling fledgling of Kanagawa basketball, playing with only one eye. His look of confusion as his jump shot had fallen a good foot short of the basket – something nobody had ever seen him fail at before – and Akira had had his hands over his mouth. With what? With pity? Perhaps. But the boy didn't falter. Still, didn't falter. In that manner of his, his infallible way, he recovered himself. Even when he fumbled the next pass. And the next. Akira would have willingly shed tears for him, but Kaede Rukawa didn't need his tears. Didn't need his pity. Didn't need anything except his own exceptional self.

The conflict of emotions had been overwhelming. Akira had almost swelled with pride when he'd taken that free throw. Eyes closed, body moving with natural rhythm, perfect accuracy. Swoosh. The delicious sound of net. But he'd also been aware, somehow, that he'd been a fool to come. It seemed clear to him, clear as anything, that unlike Uozumi, he wasn't needed. He wasn't… anybody. To that boy he was nothing but a stepping stone en route to elsewhere. Something required only until the next stone were reached. And that realisation was a bitter one.

Then, to Akira's continued mortification, that next stone appeared in the very next game. God knows, if he'd ever realised back in his past that this moment would come, he would perhaps have played more seriously. He would have pursued victory with more of a Rukawa-esque determination just to beat that smooth-headed bastard.

Because in the brief and dangerous moments of Rukawa and Sawakita's exchanges it was clear that here were equals. It was clear that Rukawa had reached a new plateau. It was clear, finally, that Rukawa had bypassed his first and so short-lived rival Sendoh Akira's skill. In raw basketball technique, at least.

And now… how presumptuous had he been to dare to come here. To make such a journey to such a place on such an assumption that Kaede Rukawa somehow would… _need_… him. To imagine that his support was necessary.

Rukawa won that game. He would have won it whether Akira had been staring at him with wonder or not. Because… just because… he was Rukawa. And defying expectation was what he did. Defeating Sendoh Akira was what he did.

And amongst the cheering, screaming, joyous crowd, Akira felt quite unlike himself - confused and neglected and bitter. Not that it showed. Hell no, it didn't show. And he'd never admit it to anyone either. But still he felt himself rocked.

He'd contemplated going to the locker room to meet them. To congratulate them. To pretend that he was cool and calm and collected. Instead he turned tail and fled back to Kanagawa reeling, not knowing how on earth he'd ever be able to face him again.

Of course, as it turned out, Shohoku also returned with their tails between their legs – knocked out by a lesser team. And when Akira saw the familiar figure shooting casual free-throws down at the local courts that Saturday afternoon, he stopped and wondered whether or not to approach. He wondered whether it was costing anything for Rukawa to come to him without the national trophy. Whether he was ashamed at all of his eventual defeat. Somehow, he doubted it.

And knowing that, he turned and headed home, deciding at the last moment not to practise basketball that day.

Six hours later and the person he least wanted to see was on his doorstep demanding an explanation. Akira scratched his head, the chill of the evening causing goosebumps to rise on his bare forearms. Though perhaps it was not only the chill that did it. He didn't know what to say to Rukawa's complaint, and didn't know what to do when the boy shoved past him and into the apartment, so he just let him pass. But he didn't look right there among the old familiar furniture, all a little drab, a little worn, a little unkept. So unlike _his_ unfathomable perfection. It was like a priceless vase stuck at the back of the crockery cabinet. Akira didn't like that.

So he asked him whether he wanted to go out. As an apology perhaps, for missing their basketball date, although mainly because he couldn't bear to see him there looking so hopelessly out of place in his room. But to his mortification Rukawa didn't want to go. To his continued misery he actually settled himself onto the sofa-bed and folded his long elegant legs, stretching fully across half the room. A vague enquiry into his family was made.

Akira mumbled something about living alone while eyeing the twin pillars of power and athleticism folded so daintily like a lady's and wondering whether if he pushed any harder he might actually fall through the wall at his back and wind up in next door's kitchen. Truthfully he'd rather be there than here anyway.

A nasty silence descended. He cast his mind about trying to find something he might say to this vision of godliness. Something that might convey his own considerable desirability and availability while simultaneously hiding his recent crushing sensations of inadequacy. Hiding his absolute terror that Rukawa would soon lose all interest in him unless he could find some way to… to… fuck it he didn't know what. How in god's name was he supposed to maintain this façade when he was no longer confident of being able to match him on court and terrified of actually finding out that he couldn't?

Still he cast his mind around for some spark, some topic of conversation to break them out of the gridlock but came up with nothing. Nothing, that is, except for the only goddamn cursed thing they had in common. That damn it all the hell sport.

"So uhm… how were the inter highs?"

"Don't wanna talk about it." Rukawa rolled his tongue in his mouth in agitation.

Well now, there was a surprise. Rukawa not wanting to talk. How gobstoppingly unusual. Akira suddenly felt exhausted. They really had nothing to say to each other. So why was he still here, still sitting on his sofa, on his _bed_, refusing to leave? Continually rubbing Akira's nose into the fact that he was so goddamn capable, so at ease, so fucking _Kaede Rukawa _about the whole thing.

At a loss over how to continue, Akira stood awkwardly away to the side. He would have sat, except the only other seat in the room was on the half of the sofa not currently occupied by Shohoku's blessed star player and Akira would have stuck pins in his eyes rather than snuggle up next to his royal highness. Quite when his thoughts had turned quite so bitter and quite so black he wasn't entirely sure, although the long and dejected train ride back home from Osaka may have played a part in it. Quite when Rukawa had changed from a thing to be adored to a thing to be loathed he could date much more accurately. Ah yes, that feeling dated from the moment that Rukawa became the more successful player. The moment Akira's so well-hidden ego had bruised. And there it was.

So the silence and the torment stretched on until;

"I saw you there. In the stands. At the Sannoh game."

And that was when he was quite sure he was going to die. Pass away. Kick the proverbial bucket. Rukawa's staring eyes were two blossoming pinpricks of utter ruthlessness. How unfathomably cruel of him. Was he absolutely determined to humiliate him? Would he not be satisfied until he had Akira's pride nailed against the wall? It made him fume with rage to think that his moment of weakness had not only been found out but was now being _exploited_.

"Yeah, I er…" it was amazing how he could pull off something so smooth as this lop-sided grin when inside his mind he was tearing up curtains and biting through cushions "…I just wanted to see how you guys managed. Representing Kanagawa and all."

"And?"

_AND?_ _And_ what, the sadistic bastard? Did he expect Akira to fall on his knees and worship him or something?

"And… and you were good. _Shohoku_" he corrected himself "were good. Really… really… good." He dropped his eyes and mentally kicked himself in the shin. In the _teeth_. Rukawa looked suspicious.

"Did you… go to watch… _me_?"

No! "No!" No_._ "_No_." No.

He still didn't look entirely convinced, but he stood up finally and stretched, elegant hands reaching to the ceiling, to the sky. Perhaps he would leave, Akira hoped wildly, him and all his god-given superiority complex, and spare him this ridiculous and overwhelming embarrassment.

"Want to play some ball?" he offered almost off-handedly. Sadistic arsehole.

Akira pretended to give this some thought.

"It's getting pretty late so I guess… no." No. No. _Hell_ no. He would rather dye his head red and run stark naked through Shohoku with a banner that read 'Sakuragi for president'.

Because he knew that if they played, Rukawa would win – he had _already_ won – and it was almost feverish, Akira's desire to not let him realise that. Or… if he had already realised it then at least not to actually _prove_ it. Because that would just be a whole lot like committing suicide. Mental suicide. The death of his soul, his pride, the death of _Sendoh Akira_, not to mention the final passing of his mangled, tortured and wasted heart. No, he'd never mention _that_. So what if it was _unsportsmanlike_ of him to be such a sore loser? You know what?: as far as he was concerned, the s_portsmanlike_ could go and fuck themselves.

"No?"

"No."

Rukawa looked a little bemused, a little put out, a little less like his fully composed and statue-like self and Akira congratulated himself on… on what? On having hurt him? Yes, perhaps. Stuck up guy deserved it, _needed it_ to be honest. Ought to be taken down a peg or two, knocked off his high horse. Absolutely.

"Well…" he shifted where he stood, suddenly a whole lot less elegant that Akira had always thought, moving his shoulders to straighten out his Shohoku jersey, aware finally of the awkwardness in the room. "Actually I… just came to thank you for coming. I mean… to the game." He raised his eyes to meet Akira's with something that weirdly resembled shyness before dropping them again. "It… it meant… I mean… I…uhm… I appreciate it." He shrugged like it was no big deal.

Akira tsked, not in the least prepared to allow Rukawa to patronise him with his airy-fairy blathering, not in the least willing to believe that Rukawa was not being anything but an insincere con artist. "You would have won even if I hadn't gone."

"Well, yes."

Well. There you had it. The proof in the pudding. A huge steaming shit pile of bare-faced insincerity. Akira gave him an accusing stare. What the hell did he mean by pretending to be grateful for something one minute and then turning around and pronouncing it utterly worthless the next? What a complete and utter arsehole. What a prize bastard. What a…

"It's just no one else came to… you know… watch the game."

Yeah right the stadium had been _packed_! Besides, Uozumi went. And the whole of Kainan was there for christsakes. Had this guy had his head stuck so far up his own arse the whole time that he hadn't even frigging noticed?

"Well… I just..." he trailed off. "Well I guess it doesn't really matter…" he glanced towards the door and half turned towards it, "I should…"

"Wait" _Wait!_ "Well?" _What?_ Something suddenly clicked. "Didn't your parents go to watch you play?"

And all at once Akira didn't need to hear any answer from him, no yay or nay or any other variation on the much used theme to know that he'd hit the nail on the head. To know that for this boy who was quite possibly the most talented player in Kanagawa, hell in _Japan_, only one person - one single lousy person - had gone to support him in his most important game. The same one person who was too feverously jealous and too busy denying that whole thing to realise how fragile this little basketball prodigy really was.

He mentally kicked himself in the shin. In the _teeth_. He knew he could spend as long as he liked trying to convince himself that Rukawa was an arsehole but suddenly it wasn't working as well as it had been before. He'd lost the passion for it, to be honest and besides the fact remained that there was only one arsehole in the room and it was most obviously and excruciatingly _himself_. Well, fuck.

He found himself stepping over to that little darling and grasping his arms, staring right into his eyes, vaguely horrified by his own actions but otherwise completely at a loss as to how to make up for being the biggest pillock on earth.

"I went to see you" he breathed in a rush, as if it were the hardest thing he'd ever said, some grand confession of love, like he was asking him to fucking marry him. "I couldn't take my eyes off you." _I never could. I never will._ "You played…" _like an MVP, like an angel, like a god_ "…so well. I felt so…" _weak at the knees, so utterly and hopelessly infatuated _"…so proudof you. Everyone's eyes were on you, all around me people were pointing you out and asking who you were and you know what? I wanted nothing more than to turn to them, those people beside me and tell them all, tell the whole damn stadium that you were my…." _my…_ "…my…." _my...? _"…my…" _fuck Akira fuck. Think think think! My what? My what! ? ! ?_

He could only stare at Rukawa in mortification. Friend? Rival? Practise partner? Future husband? _Love of my fucking life_?

The silence was unbelievable. Seriously, if he hadn't been there he wouldn't have believed that anything could be that tense without involving some sort of firearm. There was sweat on the side of his face. He could feel it. Ugh. By the time it became obvious that he was mortally incapable of finishing his own painfully embarrassing and flowery sentiment, Rukawa was laughing at him. The corners of his lips had turned upwards in genuine amusement and a snort of laughter escaped his nostrils. Good going Akira, good going. Now you look like a freaking idiot.

"My…?" Rukawa prompted, smirking a little, lifting a hand to shake off Akira's grip on his upper arm. But he didn't back away, no for some weird reason he actually… pushed… forwards… wait, what?

Akira's eyes widened. Okay, time to panic. Rukawa's lips were inches away. Inches. Inches! This was a joke. This had to be a joke. Rukawa was laughing at him.

"My…?"

He got so caught up watching Rukawa's approaching lips that he didn't pay attention to what the rest of his body was doing. He failed to notice that Rukawa was moving stealthily closer and closer, and before he knew what was happening, he was sharing his heat, his warmth, aware of the firmness of his chest, the absolute deliciousness of this sudden brush of contact, connection, confession and _oh… no…_

Too much. Way, way, _way_ too much. Can't handle this. Abort, abort! He tried to back away but this time it was Rukawa who took a hold of his arms. Was he trembling? Yes, yes, damn it all he was trembling. Like a leaf. For fucks sake he – Sendoh Akira – had suddenly been transformed into some kind of… of… of… _shaky-leaf-being_ and God this was quite possibly the worst, worst, _worst_ birthday _ever_.

"My…?"

Gap was closing. The distance between their lips was reducing, contracting, shrinking, getting smaller. Smaller! Smaller and smaller! Hadn't Rukawa noticed it? Was he doing this absent-mindedly? Was there something terribly terribly wrong with his brain? Soon the increasingly endangered gap wouldn't exist anymore. Soon they would be… would be… god it didn't bare thinking about. _Oh_, but he smelt so fine. _Oh_, but the hairs of his thick fringe were tickling Akira's skin in what must be the most erotic way imaginable – those tiny keratin-based bastards had a lot to answer for. And _oh_ but this was hell, total hell, but _oh _this was most certainly the closest he'd ever get to absolute fucking heaven. But oh, oh, _oh_…

Their lips touched. Their eyes closed. For a few moments they were tender, gentle, curious and exploratory. It was weird and it was hopelessly wonderful and innocent. It didn't last though. Of course not. The next moment Akira had clenched his fist in that fine, thick hair and pulled his head back roughly, hungrily, greedily, hearing him moan, hearing him gasp, hearing the world falling around his ears, and was possessing that fine moist mouth as if he would die if he stopped. They fell back onto that goddamn sofa-bed but didn't stop, backs arching with desperate fervour to bring themselves closer and closer and hotter and hotter. Days, months and years of suppressed desire bursting out of each of them as if they were both swimmers breaking the surface for air. And god, god, god it was good.

They parted gasping.

Akira couldn't break away from those eyes looking up at him, dazed and wanton and oh so fucking hot. Couldn't wait. Couldn't stop. Must… had to…

"After this…" Rukawa suggested quite suddenly, looking up at his friend-rival-practise-partner-and-future-husband looming above him and panting hard, a little tempting lick of his lips, a little coy, a little hot, a little like Akira was absolutely in no position to refuse him anything "…how about that one-on-one?"

The cheeky manipulative little sod. The little bastard knew exactly what he was doing. Akira couldn't believe it. What a little… a little… He pretended to give it some more thought.

_After this?_ Well now… you know perhaps that wouldn't be so bad. Perhaps he ought to get over this silliness of his. This little niggling jealousy. This little wiggly insecurity. Just get it over and done with, after all, _everyone_ had to die someday he might as well stick his head in the guillotine while the revolution was still going on, right?

"Yeah" he said. "Sure, of course. Why not?"

Rukawa seemed surprised. "Really?"

Sendoh Akira. Utterly cool. One of those calm and confident smiles he'd made so legendary. Like he was king of the world. Hell, he _was_ still king of the world. Something as small and insignificant as a little one-on-one would never knock his off that throne, right? Right.

"Anything you want" he promised smoothly, smirking in another soul-sucking kiss and congratulating himself.

_After this?_ Well now… he was sure that would definitely be okay. He was totally set for this. He had grown. He had matured. It was time to accept that maybe, perhaps, maybe, maybe (only maybe) Rukawa could now possibly (perhaps) be the ever-so-slightly better player. Surely there were more important things in life than winning and besides, if Akira did it right, _after this_ Kaede Rukawa would be extremely lucky if he could still even fucking walk.

Unsportsmanlike? You think? Haha. Mind your own fucking business.

-end.

Review it. Review it or I'll kill you.


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